


where the clear winds blow

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [314]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Conversations, Fishing, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Mithrim Christmas, Wilderness, because they're gathering things to trade for PRESENTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27076975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: "...and the shadows come and go."- Robert Louis StevensonAn alliance is formed to go hunting.
Relationships: Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Aredhel & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Beren Erchamion & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [314]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	where the clear winds blow

For all their would-be estrangement, this month is the longest time that Aredhel has spent in her cousins’ company. They are sharing a roof, more or less, if not a recent history. She does not know how they lost Amrod, or how they weathered a hundred or a thousand miles of their road. She only knows what they eat and drink, now, and where they sleep—and the knowledge cannot help her.

They are trapped in each other’s pain, in such close quarters. If they lived in a time gone by, children still, Celegorm would have ignored her after she vexed him. He would have ceased his merry, scribbling letters. She would have pined, surrounded by strait-laced, boorish brothers, feeling the loss of a confidant. She would have thought herself ill-used by such a coldness.

She has no such luxury in Mithrim.

Thus, when Finrod tells her that he and Beren thought to hunt for pelts in the week leading to Christmas—naught but a day after Aredhel lectured her two foolish Feanorians at the lakeshore—she knows that he depends on her friendship with Celegorm, and remembers (as if she had forgotten) that she depends on it, too.

“I will speak to him,” she says. “He knows the best paths.”

Finrod does not argue, though he has no trouble with finding paths. The delicate balance—delicate for Finrod, especially, who makes no war but also bows his head for nearly nobody—is that Celegorm has established himself as guard-dog of these hunting grounds. He might not take kindly to the knowledge that his cousins are tramping there, and at any rate, it is inconvenient to keep an eye out for the mines.

As such, Aredhel seeks him out. Celegorm—in body, at least—is not difficult to find. She intercepts him in the hall outside his room. Huan is faithful at his heels.

“Celegorm!’ she cries, before words can fail her. She even seizes him by the arm.

He blinks down at her, and she lets him go.

“I had a favor to ask,” she says. Not the way she’d _meant_ to begin, but he doesn’t seem angry.

“A favor?”

“Yes. I want to go hunting.”

“You don’t need me for that.”

She admits, “Finrod wants to go hunting.”

There it is—the suspicion. The darkening. “You don’t need me for that, either,” he says.

“He and I—” Aredhel unites herself with the plan, since she agrees with the purpose. “We want to collect a batch of fresh pelts. For trading. And venison, if we can salt it—to trade. For Christmas gifts. For the children. And you are the best hunter of us all, and know the terrain so well…”

“Enough blarney,” he says, waving a hand. “I’ll go. And you know you’ll have to salt the pelts, too. A quick cure. Otherwise they’ll be swarming with flies and stinking with rot by the time you sell them all.”

“This is why I came to you,” she says, smiling wickedly. In truth, her heart is pounding. She was so bold with him and Curufin, yesterday. In the night she wondered if they would ever speak to her again.

Before dawn has spilled over the evergreens, the wind-rippled water, the dun-colored hills and fields, Aredhel drags herself from her makeshift bed and goes to wash and dress. Behind the curtain in the kitchen, she drags on her sturdiest trousers. By the time she has returned to the hall, Beren and Finrod have also readied themselves, and are waiting for her. There is no sign of Celegorm, indoors. Instead, he greets them morning at the inner gate. He has his hat on already, though there is not yet a sun to be shaded from. He has also a long, narrow rod against his shoulder.

“Fishing?” Finrod asks, incredulous. In the torchlight, Aredhel sees Celegorm’s grin.

“ _I’m_ lucky to catch a brace of rabbits these days,” he says, patting Huan’s ears, which pricked up at the word _rabbit_. “Between four _skilled_ hunters, we might manage something bigger—but I haven’t a bent penny to bet on you, cousin. The Arroyo stream isn’t far from here. I’ve fished it before. Mithrim knows it, but they content themselves with what tumbles into the lake.”

Aredhel doesn’t trouble herself with asking what Celegorm thinks about the lake-fish. Neither does Finrod, who smiles, close-lipped, in that particular manner of his that manages to be at once both patient and dismissive.

Though the insult was Celegorm’s, Aredhel puts a hand on his arm to ease his hackles before they rise.

“Have you any rods for us?”

“Rods to spare, spoil the fishermen. We’ll cut some along the way. I just keep this one about because it suits me.”

The sun has climbed the unclouded sky when, at last, they reach the river. Celegorm has, obligingly, stopped to cut sapling rods for the rest of them. Aredhel must be careful not to let hers catch in the branches overhead, or poke at Beren, who is at the rear of their party. They move as quietly as they can, lest any warm-blooded quarry present itself.

After some hours of observation, Aredhel does not think that Celegorm is still angry. Yet, when they reach the riverbank, she wonders for half a moment if he is _afraid_. Afraid of what? The valley in which the river runs is quiet; the rocky shore untrampled. This land is not a green or gentle one, but it is beautiful in its own fashion. Finrod and Beren have done nothing to vex a Feanorian—indeed, Beren has already befriended Huan. That is a sure way to Celegorm’s heart.

Aredhel studies her cousin’s face, forgetting herself—forgetting that he will mislike such scrutiny. Or he _would_ , if he was looking at her.

But he is looking at the water.

“Celegorm,” Finrod says, from a few paces away. “What point do you recommend?”

Celegorm jolts, as if waking, and moves. Huan moves with him.

Aredhel sinks down low, washing her face and hands gratefully. The journey made her hot under her coat. This water seems sweeter than that of Mithrim’s lake; she drinks a little from her palm.

Fishing is a powerfully boring business. She’s often heard Finrod joke about it—Uncle Finarfin and Aunt Earwen used to call him _Minnow_ , as a boy, though Aredhel never knew the whole story—but there is nothing amusing in sitting, stiff and silent, with a dangling line and an aching arm.

“Ris,” Celegorm says, joining her. He’s caught two already. It has been three hours, and Aredhel has caught nothing. “You’re in a poor spot.”

She is, at once, annoyed. “I don’t know what constitutes a _poor spot_.”

He waggles his hand at her, to request permission, and then leads her by the elbow to where the river widens. “Here. Deeper, but the current’s not so strong. They’ll have a chance to wander, taken an interest in your hook. You haven’t lost the bait?” He ascertains the answer to his question before she can give it. “Good. You didn’t fish on the road? At all?”

“It was real winter,” Aredhel says, a trifle shortly. “Real winter, and we were moving fast. We killed what we could, and ate it.”

He’s quiet.

Finrod and Beren are far enough away that they would require a shout to hale them.

Celegorm says, “It was my father’s fool idea, Ris. You know that.”

She stares straight ahead, eyes on the light on the water. He is going to tell her something, and she is going to hear it as kindly as she can. As faithfully as she can.

“All of it. Leaving you lot. Forging west. Sometimes I’m—”

She has recognized that harsh edge in his voice as one torn in her own soul, at times. She turns quickly, her line flying out of the water.

“Don’t.”

“You can’t have known,” he says. “What I was going to…”

“You needn’t be _glad_ that he’s dead. Not for me.”

“Not for you,” he agrees. His eyes are hooded. “For Maitimo.”

Aredhel casts her line again. Strangely, her hands do not shake. “Maedhros wouldn’t thank you, for that.”

“I don’t seek his thanks. Never.” A little silence, broken by Huan’s steady panting. Huan is enjoying the sun. He has spread himself over the rocks like a voluminous rug.

Aredhel’s line is drawn suddenly taut.

“Ahoy there!” cries Celegorm. It’s almost a cheer.

The have a dozen fish, between them, in the early afternoon. Then there is the messy business of bleeding them. They’ll gut them and scale them when they return to Mithrim, but Celegorm says that _he_ bleeds his fish promptly after catching them.

“Keeps ‘em fresher.” He is businesslike about it, and shows little interest in engaging in conversation with Finrod or Beren, until he realizes that Beren has been spearing his catches, rather than hooking them. Smiling shyly, Beren produces the spearhead from his pocket. It is made of stone, and has been already cleaned.

“I’ve carried it with me,” he says. “Long time.”

Celegorm hands it back respectfully. “I would learn spear-fishing,” he says. “If you are willing.”

Aredhel exchanges a pleased glance with Finrod.

In the woodland, they scare up a raccoon, with an impressive ringed tail. They catch three rabbits, and Beren takes down a deer.

“How stiff is your hand?” Celegorm asks curiously, while they bleed the deer.

Finrod opens his mouth to protest, but Beren answers, calmly enough,

“My two fingers here only move together. It does not ruin the arrow.”

“Curufin could build Maitimo something,” Celegorm says, more to himself than anyone else. “It is good to know how many pieces must move.”

There is still much she does not know. Why the river seemed to hurt him; whether he has reconciled, wholly, with Curufin; what he meant when he said that he would never ask Maedhros to thank him. Aredhel is keenly aware, now, how much she wants time to learn. The first chance to learn was lost the first night that they sat side by side again, when Fingon learned that Maedhros _lived_. She has regained ground since, and lost it again. Perhaps she should have let him tell her, how glad he was that his father was dead.

(She must keep going.)

When they arrive back at Mithrim, there are more hands to help with the process of gutting and skinning and brining. Aredhel does not shirk her part in this, but she is heartened to see Curufin slink out and join them.

“That’s a fine tail,” he says, of the raccoon.

“I don’t know if we’ll have time to dry it,” Celegorm says. “I could sell the tail alone…seems a shame.”

“Keep it,” says Curufin. “Make me a hat.”

“You joker,” says Celegorm, and Aredhel hides her relief in her salt-tub.

“That was a success,” Finrod says softly, after supper. He is helping to clear the tin cups and plates away. “Beren and I will trade at the post some miles from here, tomorrow. As you may recall, I am thought to be a fearsome Frenchman, there. I have managed twice already. I suppose shall have to continue muddling through with my limited knowledge of the tongue.”

“Say _sacre bleu_ a good deal.” She considers. “I could come with you.”

“No, no. You’re a linchpin, Aredhel.” He shakes his head. “You and Uncle and…well, Fingon is Fingon, isn’t he?”

She nods.

Finrod lingers a moment longer. “Is there anything you would like in town?”

She has no use for pretty things, here. “Make the children happy,” she says. “And…well, I don’t know what in the world could make Mait—Maedhros happy, but if you see a golden egg, trade _my_ fish for it.”

Finrod doffs an invisible cap, and gives her his word. 


End file.
